


The Queen and the Princess

by blotsandcreases



Series: Author's Favourites [13]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Emotional Infidelity, F/F, Unrequited Love, Unrequited Lust, when you really want to be robert's kid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-28 16:23:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10136525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blotsandcreases/pseuds/blotsandcreases
Summary: There is only one ring on Myrcella’s right hand, around her thumb so as not to impede her writing: onyx set on deep gold, the Baratheon colours. Her hair is bright enough for summer. After all, Myrcella thinks to herself, she is Father's and Mother's daughter.





	

On the morning of Myrcella’s twentieth name day, a trickle of sunlight comes glimmering through her shutters. She holds out her right hand so that the gentle lemon colour of the light brushes her fingertips.

“Summer on my fingers,” Myrcella remarks with pleasure.

Lady Obella Sand is fixing rings on Myrcella’s other hand. “It’s so great a fortune, my queen,” she says, the curling words comforting to Myrcella’s ear. “Nothing like the beginning of summer to herald another year’s turn for Your Grace.”

Myrcella smiles at Lady Obella. No one pays Lady Obella much mind at court even though she is a cousin to Myrcella’s consort, Prince Trystane, most probably because Lady Obella is a bastard.

But Myrcella suspects that it is Lady Obella who conspired to dispose of Ser Garlan Tyrell. Anyone who is a champion to Myrcella’s security on the throne is a friend of Myrcella’s.

Myrcella has not spoken of her suspicions but she did gift Lady Obella with a pair of riding gloves, supple leather with stitches in gold thread, for Lady Obella loves to ride.

“What would Your Grace like to drink?” asks Lady Myrielle Lannister. 

“The boiled water. With lemon squeezings.”

From the other side of the chamber Princess Sansa says, “Perhaps a song for the summer on your fingers, Your Grace? Or would Your Grace like for it to be a poem?”

Careful so as not to dislodge the brush that Lady Obella is running through her hair, Myrcella slightly tilts her head, letting her smile sweep along her face and lift her cheeks, and slants a glance at her dear Princess Sansa.

“A song.” Myrcella swirls the words on her tongue. “Will you sing it for me, Princess?”

Princess Sansa’s fingers are busy mending a quill. “Of course, if it please Your Grace.” Her lips curve faintly. “I shall have to think of the verses now.”

“During the feast,” Myrcella tells her, and indicates to Lady Obella the onyx-encrusted comb. “I should like it if you sing for us during the feast.”

Myrcella rather likes it: that her name day coincides with the first summer light. Her court shall definitely hear a song about it.

And Myrcella loves Princess Sansa’s singing voice for it is the sweetest she has ever heard. Warm as the auburn fall of Princess Sansa’s hair, and with shadows of a deeper timbre where Myrcella remembers it to be the most silvery, the most bell-like and the most like the clearest blue skies, so many years ago.

Lady Myrielle takes a sip from the cup before setting it in front of Myrcella. 

Myrcella allows the water to sluice its way through her cousin first, so she examines the rings on her fingers.

On her left hand are four rings. One is from long-gone Uncle Tyrion, a drop of pearl on silver. Beside it is one from long-gone Mother, a proud ruby set on a thick band of engraved gold. Another is from Princess Arianne, garnet on an elegantly curling band of scaled gold. And the last is from her consort, a gleaming diamond on beaten gold.

There is only one ring on Myrcella’s right hand, around her thumb so as not to impede her writing. This one is from herself, shortly after she was proclaimed Queen Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms five years past: onyx set on deep gold, the Baratheon colours.

“My colours,” Myrcella thought to herself as she made the perilous voyage from the Summer Sea under the protection of Princess Arianne.

“My colours,” Myrcella thought to herself, her face tipped up as Princess Arianne crowned her Queen Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms, and all around them the waters of the Trident roared their assent, and all around the waters the Northern and Riverlander armies stood at the behest of the tall and solemn Sansa Stark.

“My colours,” Myrcella whispered to herself, as first Uncle Tyrion fell, then Mother and Uncle Jaime. Then Tommen, struck by winter fever on the way to Casterly Rock – and all around her the greater part of the Lannister host streamed to her banners, the onyx crowned stag on gold and only that, with Dorne’s spears rearing to the south.

“My colours,” Myrcella told Lady Shireen Baratheon and Ser Davos Seaworth, “for I am King Robert’s daughter.”

She showed them Father’s immense ring then, hanging from a golden chain on top of her gown of black samite, the crowned stag of Baratheon looming behind her.

Lady Baratheon’s gaze was steady and direct, unflinching even though her black hair was pulled back to reveal the scars of grey-scale on her face. When she proposed a marriage between her future child and Myrcella’s future heir it sounded reasonable to Myrcella, and afterwards even the men of Dragonstone and Storm’s End came to her, too.

Despite the lords and ladies and knights swearing fealty to her, Myrcella has been all alone but for Princess Arianne’s firm hand on her shoulder, and her colours.

And even Princess Arianne eventually left to rule Dorne.

“Remember what I always tell you, my queen.” Princess Arianne reached for Myrcella’s hand, her grip sure, a grip from someone born to rule. The grip on Myrcella’s crown on the Trident, even before the High Septon himself anointed her with the seven oils. “This is like cyvasse. Survey all your pieces. It takes as long as it takes, as long as you win.”

Myrcella fiercely embraced her, wishing that Princess Arianne would always be by her side. She loved hearing Princess Arianne say, “You’ve grown taller, my queen.” There were only two women who moved Myrcella to poetic raptures, and Princess Arianne was a girlish fancy, stunning and brightly burning. 

But she also confused Myrcella for Myrcella often felt a sort of sisterly-maternal affection for her. Without Princess Arianne, Myrcella would not have been made queen at the Trident.

*

“I’d like to see Princess Arianne sail from the Bay,” Myrcella said. “Where is Lady Rosamund?”

They did not find Lady Rosamund Lannister. Apparently she had run away.

“What?” Myrcella heard herself say, in a soft voice. 

“She’s gone, Your Grace,” Lady Myrielle said. Her cousin, though years older than her, started to look apprehensive.

“She cannot be gone,” Myrcella said. Carefully, she smoothened her Myrish sleeves, her rings warm around her fingers. It wouldn’t do not to look her best even if she would only be gazing at Princess Arianne’s departing ship. Myrcella added, “She cannot be. It’s winter.”

Her cousin Lady Rosamund couldn’t be gone. She had always been by Myrcella’s side, ever since Myrcella was sent to Dorne. When Lady Rosamund curled her hair and put on Myrcella’s gowns, no one could tell them apart. She had always dressed and acted as Myrcella for Myrcella’s security.

And now as queen Myrcella needed her the most – oh. 

Oh. 

How could have Myrcella missed it? 

Of course. Lady Rosamund might have felt scared. She had always been at risk, and a queen was never safe.

How could Myrcella have missed it? This was simple cyvasse. She had missed it because she saw Lady Rosamund as a member of House Lannister. House Lannister of Lannisport, yes, but still her kin, her blood.

“Please don’t be upset, Your Grace,” came Princess Sansa’s voice, always gentle but always seemed to be at edge of a snowy slope. As if at any moment the benign blankets of gathering snow would start to tip over. 

She heard the rasps of Princess Sansa’s velvets before she felt a steady presence over her shoulder. Princess Sansa continued, “My brother the King in the North employs certain ways for his security.”

It involved false hair and a ratty headscarf, and grime on Myrcella’s face, and a dress of coarse canvas instead of a gown with Myrish sleeves. Myrcella stood by the Bay in this dismal attire, too dismal for Princess Arianne’s ship turning into a black smudge in the distance, but she was safe. 

Once back in the Red Keep, Myrcella put on her rings again and thought that Princess Sansa was wise.

Over the years Princess Sansa proved this thought of Myrcella’s. As ambassador from the Kingdom of the North, the princess was welcome to sit in a few small council meetings. Myrcella had observed that the princess possessed an intricate memory about heraldries, house loyalties and betrayals and relations between, and policies and treaties resulting from this web of house relations. The princess was also adept in securing alliances and trading deals for the North.

Myrcella kept Princess Sansa close. The princess was clever and beautiful and they had been friends once, when they had been girls before everything went wrong. Hers was a familiar face.

After a particularly delicate and insufferable audience with a representative from the Iron Bank, Myrcella retired to her solar, her mind still running about the remaining gold the Iron Throne owed Braavos. 

She sank on a chair by a window and leaned against the vibrant orange curtains. They reminded her of Sunspear and the Water Gardens. If she leaned her cheek against the silk some more, inhaled some more, she might smell lemons and overripe blood oranges.

“Which songs do you love, princess?” Myrcella asked Princess Sansa.

“ _The Maids that Bloom in Spring_ , Your Grace.” 

Myrcella let the orange silk slither through her fingers, and turned to look at Princess Sansa. What light passing through the windows was cold and Myrcella’s bright curtains weren’t enough to warm them. The princess smiled faintly. She had such a handsome face, long and finely-boned.

Princess Sansa glanced down at the quill she was mending, and added, “I also enjoy _Wolves in the Hills_ , Your Grace.”

After a beat Myrcella said, “Princess Arianne adores this song particular in Dorne, that one about Princess Meria Martell. She is a legend there.”

“There are many songs about Princess Meria in Dorne,” said Princess Sansa.

“As it should. Dragons did not daunt her.”

Princess Sansa put down her quill and regarded Myrcella. “I think that nothing daunts Your Grace as well. The audience with the bank representative was well done.”

A lot of things daunted Myrcella. Joffrey with his cruelty. Father with his indifference. Mother with her impulsiveness. Her stay in Dorne. Wars for the Iron Throne, and winter, and sitting the Iron Throne. All of those had and some continued to daunt Myrcella, but it never daunted her to try and face them down. 

Trying did not daunt Myrcella.

Myrcella stood, letting the orange curtains fall back behind her, and ambled over to where Princess Sansa was sat. Myrcella took her time to put one foot in front of the other. She let her skirts languidly sway with her hips. She took one of the princess’ hands in both of hers, and smiled down at Princess Sansa.

“You are very kind, Princess Sansa,” said Myrcella. “Clever, too. How I treasure you.”

The princess’ fingertips were cold, but her blue eyes flickered into a smile. “Your Grace honours me. I’m sure I pale before a queen like Your Grace, one who is brave and strong.”

One afternoon when Myrcella’s jeweller had come with Father’s necklaces adjusted to fit Myrcella, she summoned Princess Sansa to her solar where all the jewels were laid out on the table.

“Have I imposed on something urgent, princess?” asked Myrcella. 

Princess Sansa’s hands were stained with ink. “Nothing quite urgent, Your Grace. I was only writing to inquire on my brother King Rickon’s health and happiness.”

Ah, Myrcella’s neighbouring boy king. She had observed that the princess held a fierce love and protectiveness over King Rickon, even appointing the most loyal Lord Manderly and Lady Mormont as his regents.

“This will not take long,” Myrcella assured her with a smile. “You can immediately return to King Rickon’s letter. I send him my best wishes.” She approached the princess and took her arm. “Come. How would you like a golden necklace with a diamond lemon pendant?”

Myrcella had a blood orange pendant made for herself.

When the necklaces were finished and presented in fine little ivory boxes, Princess Sansa’s hand hovered over the lemon pendant amongst the crushed velvet. She was always so solemn, her dear Princess Sansa, but Myrcella had seen her slide into a charming smiling lady when arranging treatises.

“Do you not like it?” asked Myrcella.

“I like it, Your Grace. It is so lovely.”

Myrcella was as tall as Princess Sansa now: Father had been practically a giant and Mother had been a Lannister, often the tallest woman around. 

“Sit,” said Myrcella. “Let me put it on you.”

Princess Sansa’s hovering hand curled, and she smoothly gathered her dark grey skirts about her and sat before the silvered looking glass. Myrcella lifted the lemon pendant from the box. Its yellow diamond face gleamed, trailed by a delicately-wrought golden chain.

When Princess Sansa swept her thick auburn hair over a shoulder, Myrcella took her time in putting on the necklace around the princess. She felt a faint shiver when her rings brushed against Princess Sansa’s skin. Myrcella glanced up. Their shapes were slightly swaying and rippling on the looking glass, and Myrcella wished she could clearly see Princess Sansa’s eyes.

They were Tully-blue, the princess’ eyes, but often seemed like a river during an overcast day. 

“I adore lemons,” Princess Sansa said. In the looking glass Myrcella could see her touch the pendant. “When I was a girl I used to make pretend-household rolls with crates and crates of lemons on them.”

Myrcella moved her hands from the golden chain to Princess Sansa’s shoulders. Then she stooped, her fall of golden curls swaying forward and mingling with the princess’ sheet of hair, and brushed a kiss low on Princess Sansa’s cheek. “I have lemons in my court.”

*

And so the winter years trickled by.

The administrative matters were a flood especially at the beginning of Myrcella’s reign, and continued to be so as snow swept snow, year by year.

It was Myrcella and Princess Sansa who arranged to wed the Dowager Queen Margaery Tyrell to the princess’ uncle, Lord Edmure Tully. And it was Princess Sansa who brought forth the idea to betroth her sister to one of Myrcella’s vassals, the Lord Robert Arryn.

Myrcella had met Lord Arryn when he had come to swear fealty to her. He had a sickly sheen to him, and his hands and eyes were nervous. She remembered thinking, “Shame. You could’ve been as robust as your father, my lord. I could’ve appointed you to my small council, like my father did to yours.”

Myrcella did her best to survey all that she had in hand, even through screens, just like in a cyvasse game. She rather thought that Father had not seen much, or had chosen not to see, and Mother had failed to see the other pieces and would rather pluck off the screen from the board.

And Myrcella had seen these anchors that Princess Sansa was clawing in for the Kingdom of the North.

Lord Arryn was Warden of the East, frail and sickly, and from what Myrcella remembered Princess Arya was a force of a personality.

When Princess Arianne had resigned as Hand of the Queen to take up her father’s seat and focus her energies for a Dornish revitalisation, Myrcella sat by her window and considered who should become her new Hand.

She could’ve appointed her great-uncle, Lord Kevan Lannister, for he proved to be competent especially in assisting her with the Crown’s debts. 

Or she could’ve appointed Lord Edmure Tully. Father had trusted a Stark, and though Myrcella knew she couldn’t appoint the Northerners whom were not her subjects, she knew she could trust someone trusted by a Stark. Besides House Tyrell couldn’t say anything else: a lord paramount, who was also Hand, was a respectable match for the dowager queen.

But she didn’t do any of these.

Instead Myrcella attended the modest wedding of Lord Tully and Dowager Queen Margaery, where the dowager queen demonstrated fealty to Myrcella and slanted smiling glances at Princess Sansa. 

Then Myrcella gave permission for Lord Arryn’s betrothal to Princess Arya of Winterfell. It would be wise to have a link by marriage to the North, after all.

Then she betrothed a lady of House Florent to Lord Lannister’s heir, to keep House Tyrell herded. She also invited Lord Randyll Tarly to sit in her small council, a bannerman to House Tyrell and thus could be construed as a nod to them, but a competent military man now proven loyal to Myrcella.

And then she appointed the ruling Lady of Storm’s End and Dragonstone as Hand of the Queen.

Lady Shireen Baratheon had the black hair and deep blue eyes of House Baratheon that Myrcella did not have, and she had the loyalty of the discerning Ser Davos Seaworth. She might be only a year older than Myrcella, but Myrcella had observed that she was intelligent and cautious, and Myrcella welcomed what insights of Ser Davos that would filter through Lady Baratheon.

In time, though, Myrcella planned to regulate the potential heirs to both Storm’s End and Dragonstone. No one vassal of hers should have that much power that Lady Baratheon currently wielded, so it was just as well that Myrcella had already agreed to a betrothal between their children.

*

Myrcella bursts out laughing at the fool’s jape, and the court burst into applause. 

Beside Myrcella on the High Table, Lady Baratheon is beaming and clapping as well. Her cousin and lady Hand does love the capering of fools.

“He’s brilliant,” remarks Lady Baratheon. She pours herself another cup of hippocras as the strains of the harps resume and the hum of conversation sweeps into the Great Hall once more. “He twisted _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ on its head. And then added Wenda the White Fawn, the one from the stories.”

Myrcella smiles at her. “Sometimes I cannot keep up with the amount of stories you know, my lady.”

It is the second hour of Myrcella’s name day feast. Her lords and ladies have come in yards of brightly coloured silks and samite, magnifying the sliver of summer light from that morning, and brimming with high spirits. For herself, though, Myrcella chose to wear black silk with sleeves of pale yellow Myrish lace. Her hair is bright enough for summer.

And then from Myrcella’s other side, Princess Sansa says, “May I have the honour of singing for Your Grace?”

Princess Sansa’s lips are curled, a smile tucked into its corners, and her eyes are clear as she holds Myrcella’s gaze.

Myrcella licks her lips. She feels her smile widen. “You would honour me, Princess Sansa.”

She watches the princess gracefully wending her way from the High Table and down to the front of it. The candle lights glide on the midnight blue silk wrapping the curves and dips of Princess Sansa’s elegant form, then glint on the grey fur lining her gown. A polished silver wolf is snarling from amidst the princess’ braids.

And when Princess Sansa starts to sing, oh it is wonderful. 

Myrcella rests her chin on her knuckles. She savours how the princess’ voice curl and dip and swirl. She savours the words, and savours how her lords and ladies and knights can hear the words: the beginning of summer on their queen’s name day. It is practically like being anointed by the Seven.

Myrcella herself has ridden around the tilts earlier, before the start of the tourney, to let the sun envelope her in the full sight of the court and the commons, and oh, how they cheered her. How they clamoured for her long life and reign.

When Princess Sansa finishes her song and sweeps into a curtsy, the applause in the Great Hall is even louder than that for all brilliant fools and singers they have had.

“That was delightful,” Myrcella repeats, later when they are alone in her solar. “You are delightful, Princess Sansa.”

Princess Sansa looks up from mending her quill, her eyes alert despite the hour. “I do my best.”

Myrcella favours her with a smile. Under the table she stretches her feet then luxuriously curls her toes on the rug. “We could have you made a new pen.”

“Oh.” Princess Sansa’s hands still around her pen. “I appreciate it, Your Grace, but it’s all right.” She pauses, then: “In fact I have to tell Your Grace something.”

Slowly, Myrcella slips her feet back into her shoes. “Yes?”

“I am now four-and-twenty,” says Princess Sansa. “It is time that I return to Winterfell as princess regent.”

Myrcella blinks. The few lighted candles seem to whirl. 

“What?” Myrcella whispers.

“It is past time that I assume my duties to the North.”

Myrcella abruptly stands. “Your brother has his regents.”

“I still have lessons to teach my brother the king, Your Grace,” Princess Sansa calmly replies. 

There is no king _here_ , Myrcella viciously thinks. But she cannot snarl it out. This is the ambassador from a neighbouring kingdom she is talking to. A princess of a neighbouring kingdom. Behind the folds of her gown, Myrcella clenches her fists. Her rings dig into her flesh.

“There is still plenty of time,” Myrcella tells her. “We need you here, princess.”

Princess Sansa stands as well. “My brother needs me, Your Grace. My brother’s kingdom needs me.”

“You mean to leave – when?” Myrcella keeps her voice steady, even as her rings dig into her flesh even more.

“In a week, perhaps, or sooner.”

Myrcella’s voice turns softer. Her dangerous voice, it is called by Lady Baratheon and Lady Obella. “You cannot mean to leave.”

She sees Princess Sansa’s spine straighten, sees Princess Sansa’s fingers curl tightly around her quill and stone inkpot. “Your Grace, I am sorry. But I do.”

“Have you no love for me?” comes tumbling out of Myrcella. Her skirts crumple in her fists. “How could you spring this up on me?”

Princess Sansa does not startle, but she does stare for a heartbeat. “Of course I love Your Grace,” Princess Sansa assures her with that gentle voice. “I bear love for Your Grace for years now.”

A touch of warmth flickers in Princess Sansa’s eyes then, and in that moment, Myrcella knows that she is lying. The princess is lying, and perhaps lying to spare Myrcella the truth of her lie, perhaps lying to her out of pity. 

“Do not lie to me,” Myrcella grits out. “You are lying to me. How dare you lie to me and then leave me?”

The flicker of warmth promptly vanishes from the princess’ eyes like winter mist.

Since when has she been lying to me, Myrcella screams in her mind.

She darts towards Princess Sansa and clutches the princess’ hands in hers. The pen falls to the floor. The inkpot bounces off the rug and splashes glops of black. Princess Sansa’s cold fingers try to yank out of Myrcella’s grasp but Myrcella holds on, and when she looks into the princess’ face Myrcella sees the strangest thing she has ever seen in Princess Sansa’s eyes.

Princess Sansa has turned pale and she is looking at Myrcella with wide eyes: eyes suddenly clear of shadowy secrets, eyes that look like she is seeing Myrcella for the first time and at the same time seeing through Myrcella at something else.

“I treasure you,” Myrcella insists. She tightens her hold on their hands. Princess Sansa flinches at the pressure from Myrcella’s rings and Myrcella feels another tremor from Princess Sansa’s hands. “I treasure your company and your advice. Do not leave so soon.”

Princess Sansa is still looking at her with those strange eyes. Seeing Myrcella and seeing someone not Myrcella. “I have to,” she says, and jerks away so hard that she manages to dislodge her hands and Myrcella stumbles forward.

“You cannot,” Myrcella gasps out, angry now. “ _No_.” Princess Sansa has turned her back, snapping her eyes away from Myrcella. 

She wants to rage and to smash the inkpot against the wall, to upturn the table, to shout and shout and shout. But that won’t help anything right now.

Myrcella scrambles on her knees and clamps her arms around Princess Sansa’s waist. “You cannot.” The princess’ hands immediately dig into Myrcella’s wrists, pushing her away, recoiling, but Myrcella holds on. She will try to convince the princess to stay. Trying has never daunted Myrcella. 

“Your Grace,” comes Princess Sansa’s strangled voice from above. “Pl – Your Grace.”

Myrcella wishes she could see the princess’ face, if only to watch the shadows and warmth flicker there, to coalesce into lies and could-be truths. She wants to survey that face. She wants to be able to eventually tell which are the lies and which are the truths.

For now Myrcella presses her cheek against the string of embroidered silver moons low on Princess Sansa’s back. “Not now,” she whispers furiously. "Not now. Not now.” 

She keeps whispering it to the room, now gone still with the last of the day’s summer light long faded, with the last of the ink long seeped into the rug. Now gone still except for the trembles of Princess Sansa’s hand on Myrcella’s arms, except for the stifled sob from somewhere above Myrcella. Now gone still except for the whispers of silk on silk as Myrcella’s arms lock tighter around Princess Sansa’s waist.

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> You're welcome to notify me if I should add tags/warnings.
> 
> I was about to dust this off from my drafts and post it for Femslash Feb, but I thought, lemme just post happy femslash for that.
> 
> When not scrambling for coursework deadlines or daydreaming about fics I'm short on time to write, I'm over at blotsandcreases.tumblr.com sighing happily at all the great things. :)


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